


Misadventures (Tip Your Waitress)

by subtropicalStenella



Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Anonymous Sex, Blow Jobs, Come Eating, Hand Jobs, M/M, One Night Stands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 00:07:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12544356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subtropicalStenella/pseuds/subtropicalStenella
Summary: It was just blowing off steam outside a shithole bar, there's no way it can come back to haunt him, right?





	Misadventures (Tip Your Waitress)

He's polishing off his third whiskey when a voice behind him drawls

“Imperial pension still cover the insurance payout if it's death by intentional drownin in a dive bar?”

“Go fuck yourself,” he answers lazily, and signals for another.

“Think I'd rather fuck you,” the voice continues, and this time he turns.

 

Dark hair pulled back into a tail and clear blue-green eyes over a surprisingly soft pink mouth twisted into a knowing smirk and a short, dark goatee. He's tall, dark-tanned or just darker than him. They'd almost be of a height if neither of them were slouching, and he's almost swallowed up by the sort of long letheris duster backwater thugs liked to think made them look tough. It would look ridiculous if the width of his shoulders didn't fill it out, and he hadn't watched the jackass throw two rowdy Nikto out on their scaly asses, one hand apiece.

Hands he has hanging off the waistband of the tight letheris pants he  _ also  _ fills out very nicely, fingers blatantly framing his crotch. 

 

Still.

 

“Do I  _ look _ like I'm… what is it, 'Out for a good time’?” he sneers into his whiskey.

“Drinkin like that? Nah. You look like you want to make a few mistakes, and I need a smoke break,” the bouncer drawls, low and rough and every bit as cocky as he looks when he turns and saunters out the back door like he fully expects to be followed. 

 

He blinks at the last bit of cheap amber swill in the bottom of his glass. Fuck it.

 

The bouncer is leaning against the graffitied, heavily stained wall, hands in his pockets, and no cigarette. 

“I hope you didn't expect me to supply your filthy habit,” he says, fully aware of the irony.

The bouncer grins, hooks a long-fingered hand around the back of his neck and hauls him in close. He's fast,  _ too  _ fast. He must be drunker than he thought. Explains why he's doing this.

 

“Turns out, I don't actually smoke,” the bouncer drawls, and kisses him roughly, all teeth and tongue and the taste of cheap moonshine as he palms his cock through the thick wool of his uniform trousers and startles a moan out of him.

“Noisy fuck, ain’tcha,” he drawls, and leaves off groping him to start unbuckling his own trousers. “Pretty voice, but I've got a better use for your mouth.”

 

Of course he does--though he doesn't get a chance to comment on the cliche, because the bouncer is shoving him down to his knees in the dirt. The hand on the back of his neck shifts up to seize the shorter hair at the base of his skull, pulling his face against the thick bulge in his open trousers. His hands come up to push back against the bouncer’s hips, hooking his fingers into the waistband of his shorts and the letheris pants he in  _ no  _ way fits into anymore. Bloody hells, how did the bastard even  _ walk? _

 

“What's the matter, Imp? Can't handle heavy artillery?” the bouncer drawls, but does leave off some of the pressure on his head.

He opts to drag the front of the bouncer’s shorts down rather than fire back with some asinine line about having aced all his weapons qualifications. It certainly shuts him up. Whatever glib line the bouncer had been planning next falls off into a sharp hiss when he leans in, gets his mouth on the fat head of his cock, lets the bouncer fist his hand in his hair again and drag his parted lips down his shaft.

Lets him hold his face there, his mouth pressed to the base of his cock, his balls, before he's allowed to lean back, his tongue stroking up the long, heavy length to the head that leaves a thin smear of precum across his cheek in the process.

The bouncer looks down at him expectantly, licking his teeth as he smiles, like this is supposed to bother him, humiliate him. There seems to be a misunderstanding as to who is in control here. 

 

So he takes a breath through his nose, his lips caressing the dark head--before he pops his jaw and pulls as much of the bouncer’s oversized cock into his mouth as he can at once. That gets another gasp that breaks and spikes up breathlessly when he shifts up and forward slightly to take him down into his throat.

Talkative, cocky jackass has gone quiet on him, his head thrown back and panting, stroking through his hair before grabbing tight again, rolling his hips and…

 

Fuck, after the day he's had it's nice to be  _ good  _ at something.

 

So he pins the bouncer's hips under his hands, pushing him back against the filthy alley wall, his cheeks hollowing as he draws back, catches his breath and starts all over again. The bouncer gives a shuddering sigh, drags his hand up his own chest under his thick sweater and shirt. It shows off a level of lean muscle in his stomach that goes quite a long way towards explaining the way he'd thrown the Nikto out, and flexes beautifully as his breathing ticks up, as he definitely fucks around with a nipple, rakes his chewed-off nails down his own stomach, skating past an old, ugly blaster scar on his hip.

The bouncer  _ fights  _ him, hips pushing against his hands, the gloved fingers twisted in his hair completely fucking up the sleek pomade. He fights back, holding the bouncer down to short, aborted movements that still leave his throat feeling raw and  _ wrecked  _ when the bouncer hauls him backwards by his hair.

He flinches--of course this roughneck  _ jackass _ would want that, cum on the Imperial’s face, yes, very bold, so daring--but then he doesn't do that.

The bouncer stops just short of pulling him off completely and instead fills his mouth in hot, hard, bitter pulses. Too much, enough that it spills past his lips around the bouncer's fat cock and drips down his chin.

His attempt to swallow gets him a hand around his throat, a  _ growled,  _ utterly compelling, “ _ Don't--” _

\--as the bouncer hauls him back up to his feet by the vice-grip around his neck. Not hard enough to  choke him but enough to _terrify_ , and kisses the spent cum from his chin, bites down on his bottom lip until he opens his mouth with a shocked moan and the bouncer _licks_ the cum out of his mouth, off his lips, his teeth, his _tongue_.

Gods and demons that's  _ worse,  _ that's  _ filthy _ \--but he's moaning brokenly against the bouncer’s sticky mouth anyway, rutting shamelessly against the rough-calloused, half-gloved hand the bouncer has shoved down the front of his uniform trousers.

He gives up, braces both hands on either side of the bouncer’s head and buries his face and his typically embarrassingly loud, ecstatic moans in the jackass’s stupid coat collar. He lets the bouncer work his cock hard and fast, lets him bite down on the side of his neck  _ right _ where the high collar of his uniform jacket will rub for  _ days  _ over the bruise. Lets this nameless, faceless stranger, this  _ nobody _ , jack him off in a filthy alley behind a shitheap of a seedy bar and make him come harder than he has in far longer than he will  _ ever  _ admit, all over the inside of his  _ dress uniform _ slacks.  _ Fuck. _

The bouncer grins and ducks out from under his arm, saunters back towards the bar without bothering to fix his pants until he finishes licking,  _ sucking  _ the cum from his fingerless glove as he walks, and tosses a sarcastic little salute over his shoulder with his wet, sticky hand.

 

“Thanks. Tip your waitress.”

 

\---

 

“Kallus. Kallus? Hey,  _ Kallus! _ ” Bridger says, waving a hand in front of his face to break his gaze off from the sight of Kanan Jarrus slipping into a battered letheris duster, running his half-gloved hands over the scuffed, stained lapels.

“I can't believe you  _ found  _ this thing, I thought I'd lost it for good  _ years  _ ago,” Jarrus is saying, grinning at Syndulla and Wren, milk-white eyes staring off into the middle distance between the two.

“You okay?” Bridger asks. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

“No, I--No, I'm fine I just… I'm fine.”

  
Because that's not _possible,_ though the resemblance is--No. Absolutely not. 

**Author's Note:**

> Kanan has 0 recollection of this incident, as it was in the years he lost in a haze of booze and worse.


End file.
